Play's at Home

William Pankonin

This poem is dedicated to my father and coach, my brother and constant friend while moving from base to base, and my wife Charlotte, who said Americans take baseball too seriously.

T-ball, but no T, a pop-up machine.
Spring evenings, the cold warriors come home to haul their sons and daughters to the diamonds.
Blue holds the pop-up machine leash, gives it a squeeze.
Hitting a baseball is swinging a steel pipe into granite.
Batting gloves don’t help.

Fun-Dip stained, thermal underwear beneath the Jersey tucked into jeans, Super Man buckle.
Gives it a ride, pops it up.
Way up, B52 bomber throws a shadow on the park, Grand Forks Air Force Base.
Home team watches from a dugout.

A missile through the gap between the boy at third and the girl at short.
Parents and kids scream, mouths stained and bruised snow cone blue, green, yellow, and red.
Teeth seen through picket fence of sunflower seeds and cigarettes.
More screaming, fighter jet rips a slash in sky’s jersey.

Ball lifted over second, over center.
Cargo plane slides into hanger.
Safe.
We win the game, the mercy rule.
Plates of hot dogs, Old Dutch chips, grape soda.

Switch hitter, the shift is on.
No more pop-up machine.
Fastballs, curves, change-ups –unhittable.
New base, same ball.
Same game, same mitt, different stance.
New gate, same wave, same long machine gun.
Same long God Damn war.